Hey, everyone.
This feels so weird to write because I’m usually not the oversharing type—especially not in a forum like this—but I’m desperate for some understanding and maybe a spark of hope. I’m going to be pretty candid here, and if that makes you uncomfortable, I totally get it. But for those who read on, thank you.
Let me start with a bit of background: I have a dog named Milo. He’s an absolute sweetheart. The kind of dog who tries to follow you into every room, who wants to greet every family member and neighbor with a wagging tail and a hopeful “Hi, can I please snuggle you now?” look on his face.
Except here’s the big problem: People don’t usually want to cuddle him. He’s been labeled as “too fat,” “way too big,” or even “impossible to handle.” That stings. Every time someone makes a comment about his weight, I feel like a tight knot in my stomach, an odd mix of guilt and protective anger. It’s gotten to the point where I actually brace myself before introducing him to anyone new because I know some remark about his size is inevitable.
How We Got Here
I’ve had Milo since he was a wiggly little pup. He wasn’t the runt of the litter or anything, but he definitely didn’t look like he’d grow into the hefty dog he is today. It all started slowly—just a few extra treats here and there. At first, I justified it: “He’s growing,” I told myself, or, “He’s so happy when I give him this!” Plus, I was new to dog ownership, and I believed showing love meant constant treats, table scraps, and super-sized meals.
Milo seemed thrilled by that arrangement. You’ve never seen a pup eat with so much gusto. But, as he grew, the vet’s gentle warnings about healthy weight ranges began rolling in. My friends dropped hints, joking that I must be feeding him nonstop. I would shrug it off and laugh along, thinking it was no big deal.
Then, one day, I remember walking him in the park, and another dog owner asked if Milo was pregnant. Mind you, Milo is very much a male dog. That was the first moment when my face flushed with embarrassment—I realized that this was no longer just “the chubby stage.” He was genuinely overweight, and it was something everyone else could see. I mean, it was front and center.
The Cuddle Crisis
But the real heartache hit me when I noticed how reluctant people were to simply wrap their arms around him. Milo absolutely adores physical affection. He’ll nudge at you, lean his whole body weight against you, and even plop onto your lap if you’re sitting on the floor. But a lot of folks push him away or stand up the moment he comes close.
It hurts. I get that he’s big, but I never expected people to say things like, “Ugh, you’re too heavy,” or “I don’t want him crushing my legs.” Occasionally, someone jokes that they’re worried about their clothes getting dirty if he jumps up, but I have a feeling they’re just not comfortable with his size.
I’m not trying to shame people who prefer smaller, lighter dogs. Everyone has their comfort zone. It’s the comments that sting the most—the open rejection that makes me cringe. It’s hard to explain why it feels so personal. Maybe it’s because I see Milo as part of me; he reflects my own discipline or lack thereof. If he’s “too fat,” maybe I’m not doing enough as a caregiver.
My Guilt, My Shame
So yeah, I’ll admit it: I feel guilty. It was my job to keep him healthy, to help him grow up strong. Instead, I fell into this pattern of overfeeding him—giving in to his every begging whine, sharing my pizza crusts and leftover fries with zero restraint. Part of me wonders if I did that because I was dealing with my own emotional baggage. There’s something comforting about having a four-legged friend who’s always excited to share a snack, right?
And yet, I never fully grasped the consequences of that comfort. I also never realized how much of my own self-worth was tied to being a “good” dog owner. Seeing Milo struggle to run or climb stairs at times is like a punch to the gut. His breathing can get heavy; he tires out faster than he should. And while he’s still affectionate as ever, I can’t help but imagine him being silently disappointed in me.
A Wake-Up Call From the Vet
Our vet has been sounding the alarm about Milo’s weight for some time. Each visit, I’d get a concerned lecture about cutting back on treats, measuring out his kibble, and increasing exercise. But I was always the “Oh, but just one more treat today won’t hurt” kind of person. The thing is, one treat a day over multiple months or years adds up.
Recently, the vet started warning me about potential joint issues, heart problems, and a shorter lifespan if I don’t change Milo’s lifestyle. Hearing that terrified me. I could almost feel panic rising in my chest, imagining a scenario where Milo’s sweet life is cut short because I couldn’t say no to a bag of chips. That’s when it really hit me: This isn’t about aesthetics. It’s about my dog’s future.
The Moment That Broke My Heart
A couple of weeks ago, we had a small gathering at my place—some close friends, a few new acquaintances. Milo, being the social butterfly he is, lumbered over to each person for a quick hello. Some petted him politely, but a few literally said things like, “Wow, your dog is huge!” or “I’d pet him, but he might knock me over.”
But then, something even worse happened. One of my friends actually tried to joke about using Milo as a beanbag chair. Everyone laughed—except me. Milo just sat there, tail wagging faintly, not understanding why the laughter felt so off. I laughed on the outside, too, but on the inside, I was crushed. It felt like they were laughing at him, not with him. And I couldn’t shake the feeling of, “I’m the reason he’s the butt of these jokes.”
That night, after everyone left, I wrapped my arms around Milo (as best as I could) and just cried into his fur. He, of course, had no clue what was going on, so he licked my cheek and whined softly, as if asking, “Are you okay?” That moment was the final push I needed to start rethinking everything.
The Plan I Tried… And The Struggle
The next day, I woke up determined. I drove to the pet store, grabbed a bag of high-quality, low-calorie dog food, and replaced all the treat bags with a single stash of healthy, vet-approved biscuits. I vowed not to feed him my leftovers anymore. I made a plan to walk him twice a day, every single day, for at least 30 minutes each time—rain or shine.
We did okay at first. Milo seemed confused when he got half his usual portion of kibble, but after a few days, he adjusted. Our morning walks became a routine, and I felt pretty good about how far we’d come.
Then real life kicked in. Work got hectic, and I started skipping the longer walks. The weather took a nasty turn, freezing cold and sleet making it impossible to drag myself out in the mornings. Instead of finding indoor activities for Milo, I just postponed everything. “Tomorrow,” I told myself. But tomorrow rarely came.
Then the cheat snacks started sneaking back in. A little piece of bread, a nibble of cheese—small enough that I convinced myself it didn’t matter. Except it does add up. I could practically see the disappointment in my own reflection, let alone in Milo’s eyes.
Facing People’s Judgments
Meanwhile, the comments from random strangers and acquaintances kept rolling in. Some days, I felt like posting a giant sign on my door reading, “Yes, I know my dog is overweight. We’re working on it. Please keep comments to yourself.” But I never did that, obviously.
It’s funny—or maybe not so funny—how people seem to think they’re the first ones to ever point it out. “Oh, is he on a diet?” “He’s big, have you tried doggy workouts?” “Can your dog even run?” At first, I would just politely nod and explain we’re working on it. Lately, though, I’ve been fighting the urge to snap back: “Yes, I’m aware. Thanks, Captain Obvious.”
I’m not a confrontational person, so I mostly swallow my frustration and try to remember that people are often clueless about how their words can hurt. Milo remains oblivious to most of it, happily sniffing around or wagging his tail, but I sense that he sometimes picks up on my mood. I hate that my tension might trickle down to him.
Little Glimmers of Hope
Now, I don’t want you to think this is all doom and gloom. There have been these small, precious moments that keep me going. For instance, Milo recently discovered a love for baby carrots. Weirdest thing, right? One day, I was chopping carrots and a piece fell to the floor. He gobbled it up, then begged for more. I started using them as treats during the day, cutting them into little coin-sized bites. He loves it, and hey, it’s healthier than the usual stuff.
We also found a local doggie playgroup that meets in a fenced-in yard for “light exercise and socialization,” which is code for “let your dogs run around like maniacs while we owners chat.” Milo can’t run like some of the more active dogs, but he trotted around, sniffed a few butts, and even chased a tennis ball (slowly, but still). One of the other dog owners, who has a dog that’s also on the heavier side, bonded with me over the shared challenge. That made me feel less alone.
Then there’s the occasional visitor who actually loves big dogs. It’s such a relief when someone walks in, sees Milo, and immediately starts gushing about how adorable he is. One friend even sat on the floor and invited Milo to plop down beside her. He practically melted with excitement, resting his giant head on her lap. Watching them like that gave me a spark of hope. Maybe not everyone thinks he’s “too fat” to cuddle. Maybe we just need to find the right people.
A Pledge for Milo
So, here’s where I’m at: I’m determined to keep fighting for Milo’s health, no matter how many times I stumble along the way. I’m not going to pretend it’s easy, because it’s not. Some days, I’m motivated. I’ll measure out his meals carefully, make sure we get some exercise, and keep the treats minimal. Other days, I slip up, especially when I’m exhausted or stressed, and the allure of giving him a treat for my own instant comfort is strong.
But I refuse to give up. I keep reminding myself that Milo deserves the best. He’s given me unconditional loyalty and love his whole life, and the least I can do is protect his health. I want to see him thrive. I want to see him run without getting out of breath. I want to see him cuddle with people who’ll say, “Wow, he’s the sweetest dog,” rather than “Wow, he’s enormous.”
A Spark of Joy (With An Uncertain Road Ahead)
Something pretty dramatic happened just this morning. I was on a short walk with Milo—just around the neighborhood. We paused to let a jogger pass by, and I could see the jogger was eyeing Milo, maybe judging him. Then she slowed down and asked if she could say hi. I braced myself, expecting the usual “He’s so big” comment.
But instead, she knelt down and started petting Milo, telling him what a handsome fella he was. Milo wagged his tail so hard that his whole body shook. She complimented his adorable face, not once making a remark about his size. After a minute, she asked if we wanted to join a small dog-walking group she’s part of. It’s a group that meets a few times a week to walk the local trails. She said, “We take it easy, and there’s all kinds of dogs. You should come!”
I have no idea if Milo and I will fit right in with these people, or if he’ll tire out too soon. But I said yes. We’re supposed to meet them next week, and I’m both nervous and excited. Nervous that they might judge me for letting Milo get to this size, but excited that maybe we’ll find a supportive community. Maybe, just maybe, these will be people who see past his weight and appreciate his big heart.
Looking to the Future
So that’s it, really. I wish I could say, “We beat obesity, and now Milo is fit as ever.” That wouldn’t be true. We’re still in the thick of it, with a long road to go. But I’m trying. I’m trying to feed him better, walk him more, and teach him that we don’t need to share every snack to feel close.
The big question I keep asking myself is: Will he ever be small enough for people to stop calling him fat? Or do I even need him to be? Maybe there’s a version of this story where Milo stays on the heavier side but is still healthy enough to enjoy life. Maybe all that matters is that he’s active, content, and loved—whether or not he’s the poster dog for canine fitness.
Part of me yearns for that final “I told you so” moment, where Milo strolls into a gathering looking trim and energetic, and all those people who once refused to cuddle him suddenly see him in a different light. But a bigger part of me just wants him to be happy and comfortable in his own skin (fur?), regardless of what anyone else thinks. And if I can find a way to make that happen, maybe that’s the real success story.
Final Thoughts (For Now)
I can’t say how this will end. I don’t have the perfect plan all laid out. What I do have is a love for my dog that pushes me to keep trying, keep learning, and keep ignoring the naysayers who think a “fat” dog is unworthy of affection.
I still mess up sometimes, and I’m still hurt by the remarks I hear. But there’s this tiny flame of hope inside me that refuses to go out. It’s fed by every little moment of kindness I see—like the jogger this morning who petted Milo without mentioning his weight.
So that’s where I’ll leave it. Milo and I are a work in progress, and that’s okay. I’m holding onto the promise that he deserves cuddles, he deserves love, and he deserves a chance to be healthy. And I’m determined to give him that chance, no matter how long it takes, no matter how many snide comments we have to endure.
To anyone who’s been through something similar, I hope you can relate. And to anyone reading this who just needed to hear that you’re not alone if you’re dealing with a dog that’s “too big” for other people to accept—trust me, I feel your pain.
But guess what? Our dogs are more than their weight. Their personalities, their quirks, their boundless desire for companionship—those are the things that truly matter. And that’s the thought I cling to as I steer Milo toward a healthier, happier life.
I’ll keep you posted on how it all unfolds. Wish us luck.